Almonzeia, the capital of the MT Corporation's colonies on Almonzis
"Well, that's just blatant," Ax thought wearily, looking at the response from the commander of the military base on Viller. Except for the signature, it was a word-for-word repeat of the letter he'd received yesterday. Like the previous brush-off, this one was clearly an automated mass reply.
Why the hell should he waste time on idiots when there was probably a terrorist accomplice hiding on his train?
"Maybe I'm making too big a deal out of this? Maybe it's just paranoia?" Axel mused as he dialed the Viller base commander's number. But it wasn't just that a sniper-being had suddenly become a pastry chef, though that baffled him immensely. He could hardly believe in such an incredible coincidence: sabotage on an elite express, whose head pastry chef is run down by the same people who robbed MT — and suddenly a being specializing in baking cakes appears.
He'd already received replies from the restaurants where the pastry chef had worked, and the owner of the last establishment was extremely indignant about such an unscrupulous poaching of valuable employees. So, at least in recent years, some Aguilar had indeed been a pastry chef. But was it the same Aguilar who would come for the interview today?
Ax's call was first answered by an answering machine with a pleasant female voice. Fontaine gave his credentials as Express Security Chief and his Being Certificate number — and waited.
"Hello?" a voice finally came through the phone.
"Major Leitman?"
"Yes. Is this you, what's your name... Fontaine, from some train?"
"Yes, sir. I requested information from you about the being Aguilar, who served as a sniper in your unit and is currently being interviewed for a position on the crew..."
"We've already answered you twice," the major replied irritably. "Can't you read? Or do you think I memorize every soldier's personnel file from thirty years of the base's existence?"
"That's exactly what I wanted to discuss, sir. I haven't received the personnel file at all, though I've requested it twice."
"What makes you think we have to provide you with soldiers' personnel files? A written response should be enough for you, especially two of them."
"The Express 'Briareus' carries political, social, and religious leaders, heads of state and corporations. I am obligated to verify the reliability of every crew member."
"So verify! Why the hell are you dumping your work on us?!"
"I can appeal to higher authorities, sir," Fontaine said calmly, inwardly regretting every minute wasted on this blockhead. "As I recall, your base falls under the Angers-du-Mur military district, whose commandant recently traveled on our express on the Sondi – Almonzeia route."
Heavy breathing sounded on the other end. Ax waited silently while the small fry on the other side of the galaxy grasped the full situation.
"We'll send it today," the major hissed and hung up. If Leitman ran the base in the same style, it was no wonder you couldn't get a straight answer out of them.
"So maybe I'm suspecting an innocent being for no reason?"
Axel took his uniform jacket from the closet. He'd assigned his deputy, Avi Fleischmann, to handle the baggage car search today. In light of recent events, Fontaine felt he should personally conduct the interrogation — that is, the interview — with Aguilar. The meeting was scheduled in the dining car.
Fontaine got out of the elevator at the service entrance and found the applicant right in front of him. Well, at least he was punctual.
"Good morning," Aguilar said amiably, adding with a hint of a question: "Security Service?"
"Uh-huh," Fontaine replied, comparing the cook to the portrait of the bastard in white (Mr. X).
From his height of two meters eleven centimeters, Ax would have called the pastry chef a stocky, medium-sized man. But from the perspective of shorter people, he was tall, with very broad shoulders and a powerful chest, as if he'd practiced not baking muffins but throwing weights. His skin was swarthy, his hair chestnut and wavy, his eyes black, almost without shine. Fontaine noticed a ring around the iris — a contact lens edge. Hadn't a pastry chef in an elite restaurant saved up enough for vision correction? School kids earned that much during vacations!
"Something wrong?" the being asked politely. "I was invited for an interview for the head pastry chef position; I have a pass."
"We'll start now," said Fontaine, touching his finger to the door scanner. "Come in."
He let the applicant into the staff kitchen, where food for the restaurant employees was prepared. Head Chef Maranzani had cleared it of all staff for an hour, though he was very unhappy about Fontaine giving orders in his car.
"Axel Fontaine, Security Service Chief," the former stream-trooper introduced himself. The pastry chef inclined his head slightly in greeting:
"Paul Aguilar."
This didn't surprise Ax — many introduced themselves in Konti immediately to facilitate communication; though on the express, it wasn't the custom. Fontaine sat at the table, gestured for the pastry chef to take the chair opposite, and said:
"Tell me a little about yourself."
Here, everything was unsurprising — Aguilar recounted his biography quite smoothly, without stumbling once. Though memorizing it was simple enough; even someone like Theodore Ross could manage it. Ax gave the pastry chef a long look; the man regarded him benignly, awaiting further questions. Fontaine said:
"Make something."
"What?!" Aguilar exclaimed with a laugh.
"Make something," Fontaine repeated. "You're a cook; it shouldn't be hard for you."
"Is there something wrong with my diploma or recommendations?"
"I'd like to see you cook and evaluate the result."
"Are you sure your expertise qualifies you to do that?"
Ax glared from under his brows at the mockingly smiling pastry chef. It seemed they might not find common ground easily.
"I'm no professional, of course, but I'm a consumer with extensive experience," Fontaine said dryly. "I can tell ice cream from a pastry, so I'll manage somehow."
"As you wish," Aguilar rose, took off his jacket, and began loosening his tie. "Good thing I'm not interviewing for the head of your strip clubs. I'd hate to imagine what you'd ask me to do then."
He rolled up his sleeves, put on someone's apron, and began setting out dessert ingredients on the table — flour, cocoa powder, powdered sugar, and baking powder.
"Why the contact lenses?" asked Fontaine.
"I was discharged after an accident at the base — the heating system burst, and I got my eyes burned by hot steam," Aguilar replied, sifting flour, cocoa, and powder through a sieve. He measured the ingredients without scales. "My eyes and face were restored at the Corporation's expense, but now I don't tolerate constant bright light very well," he nodded at the fluorescent lights overhead. "The lenses are for eye protection."
"What year was that?"
"Two hundred five."
Ax made a note to check the accident data. The year, however, matched what was in the dossier. The pastry chef took butter and five eggs from the refrigerator.
"Where were you the day before yesterday, from ten in the morning until noon?"
"In the morning, at the restaurant, receiving supplies with the head chef," Aguilar cut off several pieces of butter, softened them over the burner, and added powdered sugar. "Then I took unpaid leave and went to the hospital."
"The hospital?" Ax tensed. "Why?"
"To get some tests done. I hope even you understand that I can't self-diagnose hepatitis or gonorrhea without professional help."
"Why did you need tests?"
"I won't be allowed to work in any kitchen without them. No one wants a cook spreading worms and bacterial diarrhea to customers," Aguilar cracked an egg and deftly separated the white from the yolk.
"But why did you go to the hospital the day before yesterday? Even before you got our invitation?"
"I was planning to quit my job, and any restaurant hiring requires fresh test results."
"Why did you decide to quit?"
"A desire for a change of scenery. After seventeen years on Viller, I want new experiences. And the restaurant where I work doesn't have an opening for head pastry chef anytime soon."
He poured the egg yolk into the butter-sugar mixture, stirred, and added the flour and cocoa. Fontaine watched as the ex-sniper shaped the dough with a spatula, occasionally adding more flour. He divided the flour mixture without scales, by eye, into three perfectly equal portions. Ferenc, come to think of it, could also cut dough by eye with gram-level precision.
"Which hospital did you go to?"
"The fourteenth," Aguilar wrapped the dough in plastic and put it in the freezer, selecting the rapid-cooling mode.
Fontaine's heart skipped a beat.
"Why the fourteenth?"
"Because I live nearby," the pastry chef's gaze momentarily became piercingly sharp, as if he were interrogating Axel, not the other way around.
"Fine," Fontaine thought grumpily, checking the address in the dossier, and asked:
"Why do you need so many weapons licenses? Is working as a pastry chef so dangerous that you have to renew your private investigation and MSN-11 class sniper rifle licenses?"
"Oh, the licenses!" the pastry chef took out the dough, placed it on a floured board, and began rolling it by hand with a rolling pin, just like Ferenc. Not all cooks could do that. "Consider it my hobby and nostalgia for the good old days on Viller. Besides, it's foolish to give up something that was once given to you for free."
Aguilar cut four pieces from the dough with a cutter and put them on a baking sheet in the oven at 160 degrees, while he started dissolving gelatin sheets in water.
"Tell me about Viller. What was the climate like? Who were your colleagues? Did you make any friends? Maybe there was even a local beauty who brightened up the hardships of service?"
"If you give me your email, I'll send you a list of my colleagues. As for beauties and handsome men," the pastry chef flashed a snow-white smile at Fontaine, "I had so many I can't even remember them all from just the last year."
"Viller," Fontaine repeated. "You sat there for seventeen years, though you could have requested a transfer. Tell me something about that charming little place."
"They bake sweet cornmeal buns there and serve excellent steaks at a place called the 'Black Bull' ," Aguilar took a bag of coconut pulp puree, a vial of lemon juice, and some sugar, mixed them in a saucepan, and put it on the heat. "And there's a poisonous thornbush called torniosa that grows right through asphalt and concrete, so we were regularly loaned out to local authorities to help burn the stuff. The roots are used to make a drug sold under the counter in every other bar and on every street corner."
All the while, he stirred the mixture in the saucepan, then added sugar and powder from a packet labeled "Apple Pectin." Fontaine didn't know what that was. Apparently, something edible. When the mixture had heated, Aguilar stirred it and poured it into a mold, which he put in the rapid-freezer.
"What was the base commander's name?" asked Ax.
"Major Leitman."
"A fine man, isn't he?"
"Of course," Aguilar replied serenely, mixing two types of cream in a bowl. "A rare son of a bitch, but aside from that, a fine man, naturally."
"What made you become a pastry chef?" Fontaine inquired. Aguilar shot him a surprised look, not stopping the cream whisking on the friz-plate:
"What do you mean, 'made'?"
"You have licenses for carrying weapons, security work, private investigation, a decent post-discharge record. Why didn't you offer your services to security agencies or services?"
"Because I didn't want to."
"What do you mean, you didn't want to?"
"Exactly that. I didn't want to. And I never wanted to. I didn't ask to be made a sniper. It was just a term I had to serve so I could do what I wanted," the pastry chef cracked four eggs, sequentially separating whites from yolks.
"You want to whip cream?" Fontaine clarified. He still found it hard to believe. This was a genetically ideal soldier; why the hell did he care about these cupcakes and separating, God forgive him, whites from yolks?! Aguilar measured cream and sugar into a second saucepan, put it on the stove, and said coldly:
"Yes, I want to work as a pastry chef. I'm sure you find that hard to believe, but you'll have to come to terms with that revelation."
"Why didn't you want to stay in the profession?"
"Because."
"How can you not want to?" Fontaine muttered, genuinely unable to grasp why a being created for a specific purpose would categorically reject that purpose. He'd never believed stories about such beings, but here they were...
Aguilar brought the cream and sugar to a boil, poured it over the yolks, and began whisking the mixture over a hot water bath. Fontaine had lost track of his actions, but so far, it all resembled what Ferenc did.
"Why did you apply for the head pastry chef position on our express?"
"The chief of the 'Altair' express wrote to me, saying you were looking for a head of pastry. I was offered a senior pastry chef position on 'Altair' a year ago, but I turned it down. I was in the middle of a course on ultra-thin chocolate figurines and didn't want to interrupt it; plus, I would have lost the money I'd paid for it."
While Ax processed the revelation about ultra-thin figurines, Aguilar finished mixing, set the mixture aside, and started melting milk chocolate in the micro-oven. He poured the yolk-cream-sugar mixture into the chocolate, stirred thoroughly, and then began adding the whipped cream in portions. Fontaine swallowed. He should have had breakfast before this interrogation...
"So why did you decide to apply to us?"
"Career advancement. You're offering me a leadership position, and I've already worked as a senior pastry chef."
Aguilar took out the mold with the cooled coconut pulp, poured the chocolate-cream mixture into it, and put it back in the freezer.
"I'm very sorry the position on your express opened up under such circumstances," he assured. "I saw the news story about your pastry chef."
When the mold had chilled sufficiently, Aguilar removed the two-layer mixture, cut it into portions, placed them in the refrigerator, and dumped chocolate cubes onto the board, chopping them into small crumbs with a knife. Then he poured more cream into a saucepan, added sugar, heated it on the stove while stirring, and poured it into a bowl with the chocolate crumbs. He set the resulting liquid aside and began whipping another mixture of two types of cream, into which he poured the chocolate liquid and stirred.
"What are you making?" asked Fontaine.
"Chocolate mousse."
Aguilar transferred it to a piping bag and filled silicone molds with the mousse. He placed the cut filling into the mousse and put the tray of molds into the rapid-freezer, selecting the "extra" setting.
"On the express, you'll have to spend five months out of every six while the voyage lasts. Are you prepared for that? Do you have partners in Almonzeia?"
"I have ladies and gentlemen with whom I occasionally spend pleasant time," Aguilar cut another sheet of gelatin into a bowl of water, poured water into a saucepan, added a huge amount of sugar and cocoa powder, and put it on the burner. "But no permanent partners, so no obstacles to working on the express either."
He boiled the chocolate, water, and sugar for a while, then poured half a glass of cream into the saucepan and stirred vigorously until the liquid bubbled. Then he removed it from the heat and added the gelatin.
"You don't use scales or a temperature sensor."
"Oh, I have excellent eyesight and high temperature sensitivity," the pastry chef replied, taking the dessert molds from the freezer. He carefully removed the dessert from the molds, placed it on a rack, poured the cooled chocolate liquid over it, and then arranged it on the pastry bases. The whole thing spent another five minutes in the extra-freezer.
"Here you are," Aguilar announced, placing a small plate before Fontaine. "The 'Crown Prince's Secret' pastry. To be eaten with a dessert spoon."
...sadly, the pastry was excellent. Fontaine ate every last crumb and regretfully admitted that Paul Aguilar was a good, even excellent, pastry chef. He had no choice but to call Maranzani and hand the cook over to him. Though why they needed a being with a sniper rifle license in the kitchen, Ax still didn't understand.
***
"How can anyone be such an idiot?" Teddy thought glumly and turned off the voice recorder. How could he not have recognized that Donna's voice, even though he'd listened to it five or six times? Then he sighed: dark-haired, swarthy people with Averon features were his weakness, what could he do...
Ross's thoughts turned to the mysterious stranger. Yesterday, when the man had slammed the taxi door without even saying goodbye, the journalist had been so outraged he'd wanted to jump out of the car, almost while it was moving. What stopped this daring impulse was the pain between his legs and a sudden wave of panic. For some reason, only at that moment did it dawn on Teddy what the "adventure" with Donna could have cost him. It was one thing to read about the thrilling exploits of journalism legend Farhad Jamal, and quite another to experience such unpleasant things firsthand.
So the journalist had curled up in a ball on the back seat and let the taxi take him to the Eleton hotel. Along the way, Teddy was overcome by such shaking that he even considered calling his father's head of security, but...
What could be more shameful than crawling back to daddy's house on his belly, whimpering with fear?! He somehow managed to get out of the taxi, hobble to a pharmacy near the hotel, and then booked a room for four days. Luckily, he had his phone, tablet, and wallet, so life wasn't exactly comfortable, but bearable.
Teddy threw off the blanket and carefully examined the aftermath of his encounter with the beautiful lady. Yesterday, he'd already ascertained that his most precious assets seemed intact, or at least, nothing looked fatal. A painkiller and some ointment for abrasions had somewhat lessened his suffering, and today everything looked almost normal.
Teddy cheered up, ordered breakfast to his room, and headed for the shower. Squeezing shampoo into his palm, he again pondered what important thing he had overheard that made those two, according to the stranger, track him down.
"Hector," thought Teddy. "Who the hell is this mysterious Hector? I'm sure they panicked because they don't want his identity revealed. But why?"
Ross was willing to believe that the Miro Florian driver had accidentally hit the express's pastry chef. However, after listening to the recorded conversation between the man and Donna, he was convinced they had some kind of mission, which this accident had caused to fail. And then there were those mentions of the MT Corporation's special services... Teddy himself had written half a dozen articles about the audacity of corporate bosses who allowed themselves to keep private armies and security services. But what could they have done to...
"They're thieves!" it suddenly dawned on Ross. This gang had stolen something from the Corporation! Now that was a story — the hit pastry chef was nothing compared to this!
Teddy stuck his head out of the shower, grabbed his phone from the shelf, and quickly typed into the search engine: "MT factories Almonzis." Of course, there would be no news about a theft, but — here was the list of all enterprises located in both habitable belts on Almonzis.
"How many are there... I wonder if the employees at these factories have strict non-disclosure agreements? Maybe I should dig through their social media?"
That's exactly what he did after his shower. A hearty breakfast had just been delivered to his room, and Teddy spent the day diligently scouring social networks for any accidental hints or mentions that might have slipped past the vigilant eye of corporate bots.
In the end, Ross discovered that some kind of incident had occurred at a factory near Almonzeia. Of course, not a single employee had let slip exactly what kind, but starting June 12th, many complained about the raging security service, and once there was even a mention of an "epsilon." It seemed this "Donna" might have been one of them... Ross shuddered. Rumour had it that any epsilon-being could turn a person into a drooling idiot in a couple of minutes.
"Strange that it didn't affect that supposed cook," the journalist thought. That his mysterious saviour was also a being was beyond doubt, but everything else...
"Why was he following me? Why was he following those thieves, whoever they are? Doesn't he have anything better to do? Some cook," Teddy snorted. He'd seen plenty of those kinds of "cooks" in the security detail that guarded the Ross family around the clock.
The phone on the nightstand rang, and when the journalist picked up, he heard in surprise:
"You have a visitor, sir. Do you agree to receive them?"
"A visitor?" Ross muttered, puzzled, and then immediately understood who it was. "Of course!"
"Very well, sir."
Teddy quickly stuffed the empty plates into the small fridge and put his voice recorder, switched on, into his pocket. It was time to finally get some answers from this mysterious figure.
There was a knock at the door, and Ross pressed the remote button.
"And you're ready to let just anyone in like that," the mysterious stranger said reproachfully as he crossed the threshold, "without even asking for a name or checking the camera feed!"
"So what?" Ross retorted defiantly. "What's the problem? I don't know your name anyway, so what's the point of asking?"
"But it might not have been me."
Ross swallowed. He had a point...
"Why are you following me?"
"I'm not following, I'm looking after you," the stranger retorted and began inspecting the room in that same infuriating manner Teddy remembered from his father's bodyguards. "Have you gone out at all? Called anyone? Told anyone where you are?"
"By what right do you ask me all these questions?" Ross said coldly. "Did my father send you?" His eyes narrowed: that would be entirely in character for his parent. Of course, no oppression or tyranny — Bernard Ross's views on parenting were quite democratic, as long as the children were under supervision.
"Book a ticket on the next train. I'll take you to the station..."
"I'm not booking anything," Theodore said sharply. "Tell my dear parent that I have my own life, and he has no right to interfere whenever he feels like it."
The stranger suddenly stared at the entrance door as if watching a movie — or as if he saw something intriguing behind it. He stared at the door for a minute or so, then decisively took Ross's phone, tossed the device onto the bed, and dragged the journalist towards the bathroom.
"Hey!" Teddy fumed, unsuccessfully trying to twist out of his grip. "Don't you dare treat me like..."
A broad palm sealed his mouth shut, and then a soft, velvety baritone — which made Teddy's blood rush downwards, to the area injured yesterday — breathed into his ear:
"Quiet. They've come for you."
With that, the stranger released the journalist, turned the shower on full blast, plugged the drain with the stopper, and started soaking towels in the water.
"W-what do you mean, come for me?" Teddy stammered.
"Don't worry — judging by the gas canister they have, they're not planning to kill you, just kidnap you. But they could, of course, gas you to death by accident."
At this news, everything inside Ross dropped (literally too), and he pressed himself fearfully against the wall between the bath and the sink. The stranger busily stuffed wet towels into the gaps around the door. Outside, in the room, the lock clicked. How had they opened it? Had they really broken in? What about the security system?..
"Get in the bath," the alleged cook ordered, "and keep quiet."
"Why?" Ross whispered.
"Gas doesn't work in water."
Teddy hesitated, unsure whether to take off his shoes or shirt first. The "cook" clicked his tongue impatiently, hoisted the journalist, and carefully lowered him into the water. Then he climbed into the bath himself, placed a small pistol on the edge within easy reach, and shielded Teddy with his broad back. Looking directly into his eyes from such close range, Ross realized his mysterious saviour wore contact lenses.
A faint hissing sound came from the room. Teddy lay in the water, pressed to the bottom of the bath by the cook's weight.
"We're going under now," he whispered to the journalist. "Take a breath."
Ross obeyed, and the cook gently pushed his head underwater, then submerged himself. Teddy squeezed his eyes shut, trying not to think about how long he could hold his breath.
The water muffled the sounds, but Ross still felt faint thuds against the bathroom door a few seconds later. Someone was trying to get in, and soon the door began to give way, despite the towels. The cook shifted slightly, braced his hand on the edge of the bath, and picked up the pistol.
The door had opened just enough for Teddy to hear footsteps — or maybe it was just the rushing in his ears. He looked over the cook's head and thought he saw a hand squeezing through the narrow gap between door and frame — when suddenly a piercing ringtone echoed from the room. Teddy's phone.
The phone blared for half a minute, and Ross was already running out of air, when suddenly the cook covered the journalist's mouth with his own and breathed air into him. The phone switched to speaker mode, and a voice Teddy recognized even through the water came from the room:
"Mr. Ross? This is Felix Rivera, head of your father's security. We've received information that you may be in danger. Contact me immediately, otherwise I'll have to send my people to ensure your safety."
Before Rivera could finish, there was a coordinated stomping of feet and a loud bang as the door burst open. The cook surfaced from the bath, dipped one last towel in the water, wrapped it around his face up to his eyes, and slipped silently into the room, pulling the door tightly shut behind him.
Ross lay on the bottom and endured as long as he could. When his lungs were bursting, he risked surfacing, grabbed a quick gulp of air, and submerged again. Faint noises came from beyond the bathroom door. Or maybe it was just rushing in Teddy's head — the air had a sweetish taste, so the journalist, just in case, gripped the edges of the bath tightly to keep from drowning if he passed out.
When his second breath was almost gone, his saviour returned. He fished Ross out of the water, wrapped a towel around his mouth and nose, and dragged him into the room. All the windows were wide open, as was the balcony door. The cook pushed Teddy onto the balcony, pulled the towel away, and ordered:
"Breathe."
Which Teddy did with immense pleasure. He gasped for air like a fish, thinking only that this was the one time his father's bodyguards' intervention had been utterly appropriate.
"But where?.." the journalist rasped, pointing a finger towards the room.
"I put the gas canister in the fridge. Or did you mean the attackers?"
"Who were they?"
"Terrorists," the stranger replied imperturbably and handed Teddy his phone. "Call Señor Rivera back. Do you have your personal belongings with you?"
"Phone, tablet, wallet... don't throw them away!" Ross howled, instantly remembering a hundred action movies, detective stories, and thrillers. "I'm a journalist, my phone is my life! And... and who the hell are you?!"
"Paul Aguilar," the stranger inclined his head slightly, "pastry chef."
Ross gave him a long, appraising look and asked suspiciously:
"Are you sure about that?"
The saviour smiled benevolently into his moustache:
"Not more than this morning, I was interviewed for the head pastry chef position on the Express 'Briareus'."
"Really? What a coincidence — I just bought a ticket for that very train."
"I'm planning to work there as a pastry chef, not because your father sent me," Aguilar assured the journalist. "But since you've already bought a ticket... hmm, that might not be a bad place to hide you."